


season of the bonfires.

by lachryma



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, POV Arthur Morgan, POV Original Female Character, Possible Romance, Requited Unrequited Love, Running Away, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 16:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19255330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lachryma/pseuds/lachryma
Summary: “You have been starved, you are hungry. I have nothing to feed you.”— Margaret AtwoodThe daughter of a butcher & the wolf that gnaws on it's own tail. The desire to be in love with death subsides with each shaking breath.  A story of running, to something or away from something -- the objective is never clear.   A sinner by legacy,  who desires to shed her skin.  A sinner by choice, desperate to cling on to what he knows best:  wickedness.Eventual romance, because I love romance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> burning like a bonfire until there's nothing left / i'm losing my desire to be in love with death .  
> that's where it ends, that's where it ends , handcuffs and hospital beds, that's where it ends .
> 
> This is an impulsive fanfiction that I thought about for literally one week and finally decided to finally write out. Naturally, I start it out with Arthur's introduction being the mission he got really drunk and went around yelling Lenny. Comedy gold, but I'm not a comedian.

_ I won’t be like my father.   _  These are the words repeated, spoken like a mantra. Uttered, mindlessly, in a hope it’ll make it be true.  _  I won’t be like my father, I won’t be like my father, I won’t be like my father. _

But as the rain pours down, each harsh droplet seems to melt away that hope.  The hands that grip the gun shake, feverishly. Plagued by the cruel realization of a line so often spoken.   _The apple never falls far from the tree_ , they say with gap toothed smiles. Their hands grip shoulders too slender for such a tight hold -- they shake and they shake. _The apple never falls far_ , they repeat, _your daddy’s dead, ain’t he? Your daddy’s dead and buried, where he oughta be._ These growls from strangers illicit screeches and demands to be released.   _I’m not like my father!_  
  
But they don’t seem to hear it. They grip and they poke and they drag their teeth along strange flesh, until they’ve threatened and invaded enough for a woman to pull a gun, the click is enough to give pause, and an opportunity to shoot.  The body falls with a dull thud, and it’s the few seconds of disbelief that present an opening for a daughter to flee.  
  
_My father killed too, didn’t he.  Just because they made him mad._ _  Killed and killed and killed.  This will be my legacy too, won’t it?  You can’t escape the killing. _

The mud sticks to her boots. People cast curious glances as they watch a woman run-stomp through the town, occasionally wobbling and trying not to fall.  The downpour hadn’t stopped for three days now. And it seemed to fall even harder, a silent jury to her sins.   
  
Strawberry had meant to be a retreat, a moment of rest on the trip to Valentine. From Valentine, she’d take the train all the way to Saint Denis --  where she’d hole up like a rat, and find a way to scrub herself clean of this cruel way of life.  Civilization rested in Saint Denis, people said. Factories and sophisticated buildings -- civilization was the remedy for the savage ways of the West. The ways she was so familiar with.

But, the shouts ring out and shatter the dreams of making it to Saint Denis.   _Murder in cold blood_ , voices shout, in hopes of drawing the attention of the sheriff.  _Hang her! Hang her!_ The fleeing woman's movements become more frantic, eager to get away. One little utterance of her family name, and she’d be locked up for good - _or hung_. No matter what crime was committed **against** her, no matter what trespasses -- her name, itself, was a death sentence. 

Shaw, was the name that did her in --  for everyone knew of _Augustus Shaw_ , by both his lawful name and the one famously given to him. **Black Eyes.**   It was said that Augustus’ eyes turned blacker than night when he became enraged, which was so sudden and so often -- that the name stuck with ease.  His daughter could never recall seeing her father’s eyes turn this _legendary_ black. They had always been a simple shade of brown, no more and no less.  
  
In her youth, she had sat by mirrors or lakes, staring at her reflection to see if her own eyes could turn this color.  She had his eyes, you see. Same shape, same shade of brown, same dark lashes.  _You have gentle eyes, little bird,_  her mother said, often, especially when she caught her child looking so deeply at her own reflection. It was as if her mother knew this interest in her daughters appearance was not out of vanity, but out of terrible curiosity.   _Why doesn’t papa have gentle eyes, mama? You even say his eyes are cruel, why not mine?_    These questions were often asked, and each time her mother pulled her close. _It’s the spirit that shines through the eyes, birdie, your spirit and your father’s are different._

Her mother had died when her daughter was but thirteen, leaving her in the care of her father.  It could have easily been believed Black Eyes would be a terrible, tyrannical father -- but his daughter could not even force herself to believe such.  Augustus had always been gentle, as gentle as a monster could be. He was distant and unsure of how to raise a girl of young adolescence -- but he had tried, to some extent. Maybe even tried his best.  He had found it easier, she knew, to pretend she was a boy. He trimmed her hair for her, bought her trousers, and referred to her exclusively by a boy's name.  He never said why he did this, and Vita never asked. Their life, then, had been hard -- and perhaps it would have been harder had his daughter been openly so feminine.   Even before he died, he had referred to her as a boy. 

_This is my **son** , mine own Telemachus, to whom I leave the sceptre and the isle._  
  
He had whispered, smearing red across his child’s cheek, wet and warm. It was ritualistic, in a way. A passing of fate from father to child, only unwillingly was the child’s reception of it.  With little enthusiasm, Vita had buried her father outside of Blackwater -- she did not mark his grave, for fear those who idolized the grandiose nature of her father would dig up his body and parade it around. _Give a nickel and see the body of Old Mad Eyes! Gruesome butcher of West Elizabeth!_   The very idea made her shiver with horror. Though he was a terrible man, rotten and plagued by a sense of madness no one could understand -- such a fate was too cruel, even for him.

A horse stands, idly by, it’s reins tied to a post as it bobs its head in aggravation. It turns its head, curiously, to watch as the woman drags her feet through the mud -- she has lost her left boot by now -- and scrambles to pull herself into the horse’s saddle.  It takes only a few sharp tugs from the woman to free the stallion’s reins -- and the beast is eager to flee, as the shouting grows more incessant and forms into shouts of  _“Don’t let her get away!”_

The shouting fades into the distance, as the violent beating of horse hooves carries the rider farther and farther from the town. She half expects a pursuit of some sort, but even as the horse falls into a steady trot - there is no sound of pursuers. 

It seems her resting will take place in the woods, instead of Strawberry, much to a woman's disappointment. Sitting under a large tree which provides little shelter from the rainfall, holding a gun and turning it over in her hand.   She had killed a man with this gun, again she had killed a man with this gun.  Her father is proud, she can see his smile without even having to close her eyes.    _Sharp shootin’_ , her father says somewhere in the back of her mind.   His daughter can only frown and holster the weapon.

“Mother, forgive me. I have killed my fourth man today.”

  
  


* * *

 

Valentine approaches as the sun begins to set.  The rain has lessened, and the soil had already begun to drink heavily from the puddles left behind. It is, with some relief, the woman rides into town -- still soaking, still missing a boot  -- but somehow. . . no worse for wear. 

 

No one bats an eye in her direction as she passes. It seems that they’ve seen worse, had worse, and could care very little for the nature of the people who pass through.  It’s a small community, fueled mostly by the animal auctions hosted by local ranchers. There’s a saloon, a general store, a small bank, a few modest homes -- and maybe even a hotel, she can’t quite remember.  On the church overlooking Valentine, lay the old church, whose bell rarely rang. In fact, in all her youth, she had never seen the wooden doors open, never laid witness to any manner of congregation. Must be poor timing, she thinks curiously. Offering a passing glance to the large steeple, reaching upwards towards heaven. 

Her horse obeys the pull of the reins, stopping just outside the saloon. A quick look around, and her eyes find the hotel sits adjacent to the building. With some consideration, Vita dismounts her horse and crosses to the other side.  Saints Hotel, reads the painted letters across the front of the hotel. Some sort of irony rolls over her as she pushes open the door and meets the face of a man whose only job, it seems, is to stand and smile. 

“Evenin’, miss. Lookin’ for a place to rest your head?”  He is already pulling a book across the counter, as if he knows her answer before she offers it. 

“Yes, actually, and your bathhouse? Is it open?” 

“Of course, of course. We even have an _attendant_ , should you find yourself --”   
“No thank you,” She interrupts, already moving towards the counter and reaching for a pen.  She signs her name as _Vita Pleasant_ , purposefully substituting her surname with her second name.  The man behind the counter turns the book to regard her name carefully, and with some amusement, he nods. 

“Very well, _Miss Pleasant_. Room 202, upstairs and first door to the left.  Bathing room is at the end of the hall, has a nice little plague so you should find it easy.” He slides a key, which Vita hadn’t even seen him reach for, across the counter and leaves it for Vita to pick up. She offers him a nod in thanks, and moves upstairs.  True enough, room 202 sits just at the top of the stairs. It’s small, quaint. It’ll do. It’s a warm bath she’s truly interested in, at the moment. 

The bathing room is lit, almost entirely, by a fireplace which crackles meekly. With no one to cater to it, Vita helps herself to the poker laying against the brick and begins jabbing at the burned wood -- which crumbles at the gentlest touch. A plume of smoke rises, and shortly a small flame bursts to life.  It does little to help the dark room, but a knock at the door is enough to distract from that fact. 

“Yes?”   
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to be a bother -- I came to light the candles for you.”

The door cracks open, and a woman enters. Her face is lightly painted, but even in the dark Vita can see her lips are painted a deep red.  She would be beautiful in better lighting. Slender, pale-skinned. She seems almost bashful for having to step into the bathing room. Vita wonders if, for some reason, it is because she is a woman.  She knows this is the reason when she begins to undo the ties of her shirt. The bath attendant looks away, busying herself with lighting a few candles on the nearby table. Once the flames are lit, the room becomes lighter -- and easier to navigate.  

“There you are, ma’am. The water should be warm for you, do let me know if you need anything.” 

Vita starts to offer a thank you, but the girl ducks out before she has a chance. With a funny smile, she removes her clothing and tosses it to a corner.  The water is, as the girl said, warm as it touches her skin. It is an incredible feeling, to go from freezing with rainwater to warm, in an instant. It tingles the skin, and she cannot help but sigh as she lowers herself into the tub.  The bubbles are few, but this is a trivial matter compared to how deeply relaxed she is at the moment. She gathers water in her hands, and brings it to her face where she makes an attempt of rubbing whatever dirt has caked on her cheeks and chin. She does this several times, until her face feels smooth and feels clean.  Her hair is another matter entirely, as her fingers first must undo the braid that is loosely woven down her back. Once free, the waves dip eagerly into the bathwater, and the woman lowers herself further into the tub until her knees poke out and her head is entirely submerged. 

From underwater, she almost doesn’t hear the door slam open, the door knob hitting the wall with some force.  She shoots up from the water, eyes wide and blinking through the droplets running down from her hair to her chin.  For a moment, she thinks it's the girl, come again in embarrassment to say she'd forgotten something.  But, from the candlelight, Vita can see the body is heavier than a girl's,  masculine and slouched. He rocks slightly from side to side and the soft smell of liquor slowly begins to make its way towards her, further confirming the suspicion that this is a drunken man.

“Leeenny?” 

It takes a moment for her to process he’s saying a name of some sort.  He says it again, disregarding her entirely.  “Lennnyy?” 

“Lenny’s not here.” 

This seems to surprise him, as he blinks his eyes and finally looks directly at Vita, who stares right back at him with equal confusion.  “Ya know where Lenny is? Do you -- knooooow where Lenny is? My friend, Lenny?” 

“No. I do not. I am **incredibly** certain he’s not here with me.” 

“Aahh, I don’t _bee-lieve_ you.” He shuffles forward, then leans until his face stares directly into the bathwater. Vita can only sit in shock, carefully watching his movements.  He makes no move towards her, personally, barely even regards her as he looks into the bathwater - certain Lenny hides between the bubbles. 

“What’dya know -- _he ain’t here_.” He mumbles, defeated.

“That’s what I told you.” The woman snaps, overwhelmed by such brazen behavior. Certainly he’d leave now, content with the fact his friend -- whose name he kept repeating -- was not here. Instead, to the poor woman’s alarm, he shrugs off his jacket and yanks off his boots. At first, Vita believes he’s going to fully unclothe himself in front of her, but the horror subsides when he makes no move for the rest of his clothing. The relief she’d began to feel, however, quickly subsides the moment he invites himself into the tub and plops down right across from her. Now this is probably the strangest thing she’s ever had happen.  All she can do is stare. From shock, awe, amusement -- she can’t quite tell. But here she sits, nude as nude can be, across from a man who -- _while fully dressed_ \-- invited himself to join her. 

He’s too inebriated to do much else than casually look around. From time to time, their eyes met, but he said nothing. He just sat there.  Perhaps, she should leave this terribly awkward situation. But, as her hands grip the sides of the tub and she begins to excuse herself, he speaks at last. 

“Don’t go.”

For reasons beyond her, but something she’ll blame on the fact his voice had sounded so terribly sad, she sinks slowly back into the water. The minute she’s sat back down, he speaks again - voice so low that she has to strain to hear it.  
  
"I'm real lonely." He admits, to which Vita cannot manage a response. He continues, anyway, taking her silence as encouragement to elaborate.

“Isn’ it funny, how you can be. . . _surrounded_ by people…” His pause is long, here, so long Vita wonders if he has forgotten what he was going to say. “Surrounded by family, but still feel so _goddamn_ **_lonely_**.” 

Now, this is a rather raw thing to say to a stranger. But alcohol has always made men strange. Stranger still when they had fresh wounds to pick at.  It made them tender. Her father had been the same way. It had been under the drink she, for the first and last time, saw her father weep. He hadn’t known she’d been awake, as he’d grabbed bottle after bottle and cried out for his dead wife. He had passed out, eventually, with no reply from the woman he so longed to see. Vita had only noticed when the air was finally silent - that she had cried along with him. It had always stuck with her, that moment. A man so painted by violence and ferocity, becoming so unguarded.  It disturbed her. Rattled her with empathy for a man who certainly did not deserve it.

Now, it’s another man. _Wea_ k from liquor, vulnerable in this moment. But she can’t rightly say whether he deserves her sympathy or not, but she offers it anyway.

“What do you mean?” 

He shrugs, then, and offers a: “Dunno.” as his only response. His vulnerability has gone as quickly as it had come, apparently, and the woman won't pry any further. They become silent, again, not meeting one another’s eyes as they sit in the water, which grows colder by the passing minute.

He breaks the silence with a slur of words, _“Was yer name?”_

“Huh?”    
“What’s your name?” He repeats,  in an attempt to be more audible than the mumbled noise he had made before. 

“Vita.”  

He repeats the name several times, in some feeble attempt at remembering it.  _  Vita, Vita, Vita.  _

“Yours?”  
  
He blinks, "My what?"  
  
_What a piece of work._ "Your name?"

The man considers this question to quite a high degree for someone so drunk. But at last he offers a name. _Arthur_ , he says, _just Arthu_ r. 

“Nice to meet you, Arthur.” Vita extends a hand out to him, fingertips pruned. He takes it, and Vita notices his palms are host to several callouses. They are rough, and she thinks she can point out a few scars across his knuckles as he shakes her hand.  He releases her palm and lets his own sink into the water. He’s staring at her, now, and Vita manages to stare right back. 

“My brother John can’t swim.”

“Oh?” Vita says, as if she is at all curious about this man named John. She's not, but he can't even tell.

“Yep. Sinks like a damn rock. Not even enough brain to swim.”

Vita considers, then, how much intelligence is necessary to swim, considering even small children can manage it, while Arthur’s face contorts into one of dire concern. This sudden expression change is enough to raise some concern of her own.

“Are you alright, Arthur?”

“'S gettin' late, don't wanna bother you no more. 'Sides --  I gotta find that boy, poor boy.”   He rises from the water, clothes soaked, and all but mumbling to himself.  Vita thinks, for a second, to offer him some assistance.  Surely a man so far gone could not manage to find another person by himself. But before the words can leave her mouth, he’s shambled out of the room and gone in search of his friend, all by his lonesome and with no goodbye.   He leaves behind a trail of footprints, and his jacket and boots. Reminders that the past interaction had not been some fever dream, and had in fact occurred.

It’s so strange, so humorous - she cannot help but erupt into a fit of laughter. Her shoulders shake as she pulls herself from the water and wraps a towel around her body. She laughs, and laughs. She finds herself replaying the moment and laughing, well into the night, until sleep overcomes her.        _Arthur.   She'll remember that name_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is pacing? I have no idea how to pace.   
> Luckily, this is all for fun. Good times are comin', good times indeed.

There is no telling what woke him first. The light peeking through the tree branches, or the incessant chittering and chattering of the birds on those very same branches.  Regardless of the cause, his eyes crack open and he is met only with the familiar pain that comes with heavy drinking. That vicious pounding in the temples, matched only by the faint taste of bile on the tongue.  

Oh, he’s had a rough night.  So rough, it takes him some time to shake the sleep off of himself.  He’s missing his hat, his boots, and after a moment of consideration - he also appears to be missing his jacket.

“Ah, _hell_.” He mutters, dragging himself to his feet. A wave of nausea rushes over him, rendering him motionless until it passes. When steady, he begins a slow trek towards the familiar noises ringing within hearing distance.  Each step closer brings a more audible shrieking from Miss Grimshaw, something about laziness -- foolishness, stupidity. Same old, same old. He stumbles into the camp and Hosea is the first to meet him. 

“Arthur, old boy - we were starting to worry.”  Arthur can tell by the way Hosea returns to his reading that he had not been terribly worried. He had always had a supreme amount of faith in his “surrogate son”, as he put it.

“Hosea. Did Lenny make it back?”

“Naturally. Unlike _you_ , however, Lenny made it back before morning. He’s been asleep all day.” No surprise, he probably felt like death itself.   
  


“How he manages to sleep through Miss Grimshaw’s yellin’ I’ll never know.” 

Hosea laughs, nodding along humorously, “Yes, it is quite a wonder but I suppose the nausea helps.” 

  
  
Arthur shares a chuckle, before crossing camp and making his way to his own makeshift ‘home’.  The bed creaks as he lowers himself onto the mattress, slow as not to upset his stomach, and he releases a rough sigh as his muscles allow themselves to relax.    
  
“Doin’ alright, Arthur?” A passing voice inquires. It belongs to Charles, who carries two rabbits in his hand.  

Arthur nods, “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. You just get back from huntin’?”   
“I did. I intended to bring a deer for us, but I found these instead.” He motions to the rabbits, plump and lifeless. 

“Should make a decent meal, provided Pearson isn’t too drunk to cook em’ right.” 

Charles laughs, and leaves Arthur be with a shake of his head.  Alone, once more, he rubs at his temples in an attempt to ease the pounding.  He reckons he could just sleep it all off, but it’s a luxury he can’t afford. He’s gotta keep the camp afloat, and no doubt Dutch’ll have some grand scheme waiting for him. And yet, as he means to rise -- his legs refuse, and he is left anchored to his bed. Each attempt at standing is met with locked knees and a harder pounding of his head. He gives in, finally, to the demands of his own body.  He reaches under his pillow and pulls out a leather bound journal, which has laid in wait for him since the last time he used it. He must have been tired that night, to not have returned it to his satchel. Nevertheless, he opens the book and flips it to a black page, where a small pencil lay waiting for him. 

To the best of his ability, he recalls the events of yesterday. All the way up until the trip to Valentine with Lenny. Here, things become hazier, a blur of dancing and singing. Fighting and drinking, running from...something? The sheriff, he puts down, and he feels that this might as well be as close as he’ll get to the truth.  Then there is the woman that appears from time to time, in odd intervals, but always the same moment. 

Bare breasted, hair long and slicked down with water. Her eyes had been dark and wide, like a doe who had just caught sight of a hunter.  He remembers, vaguely, her hand in his. It had been soft, smaller.  _  Vita.   _ The name comes suddenly.  Her name was Vita. She had been bathing and, in horror, Arthur recalls he had joined her for no good reason.  What a moron he was, scaring a woman like that. But, try all he might, he can’t remember her shouting at him or telling him to leave.  No doubt she probably did, but he can’t remember hearing a single complaint. 

Oddly enough, he finds himself wondering if she’s still there. No doubt reeling in pure terror at the night before.  Some sad attempt at good nature rises within him, and he finds a need to apologize, or explain. Doubtful she’ll want to hear it, but maybe he should. Or maybe, he just wants to see her again.  Maybe he’s foolish enough to want something like that. 

 

_ I met a woman last night _ , the last entry reads, _ I met a woman and I guess I'll be meeting her again _ . 

 

Dutch questions him as he mounts his horse. Strolls over, cigar smoking away in his hand, and peers up at Arthur with a narrowed gaze.    
  
“And just where are you going to, Arthur?”

“I’m goin’ into town. Pearson said he needed some ingredients for dinner tonight.” It’s a blatant lie, but he’s learned from the best.  The lie satisfies Dutch, who nods and leaves him be. As he and his horse draw further and further from camp, Arthur found himself wondering why he’d so quickly, so easily, lied to Dutch.  It wasn’t as if Dutch would care much at all that Arthur was going to see a woman. We all have needs, Dutch would say, go ahead. And yet, Arthur had lied. 

He dwells upon this fact all the way to town, and only the sight of Valentine breaks his train of thought and allows him to realize that his headache has gone away, maybe for good.  

 

On entering town, it takes quite a bit of recollection to remember where it is, exactly, he met the woman.  There had been a tub, evidently, so he figures the best place to start is the hotel.

The man at the entrance is hardly keen on revealing the whereabouts of a woman Arthur described as “dark-haired, named Vita.”  

“Sorry, not sure I know anyone by that description.”

It doesn’t take much coercion - in the form of a vague threat - for the hotel owner to reveal that she was staying in room 202, but had currently stepped out and had mentioned something about needing provisions.

 

When Arthur stepped into the store, he was met by only the face of the shopkeep. Neither of them were pleased to see one another, this much was clear.  

“You seen a woman come in here -- uh, dark hair. Goes by the name Vita?” 

“I don’t know about the name, but there were several women that came by today. It’s hard to say if one of them was the lady you’re askin’ about.” 

“She’s probably new in town. You’d know her if you saw her.”

In an effort to get the ne’er do well out of the store, the shopkeep considers for a moment if he’s seen any new faces. One comes to mind, just one. 

“There was a woman that came in here, I’d never seen her before. She was wearing trousers and a man’s jacket.  Not much of a talker, bought a few things and left. You could try the saloon? She was headed that way.” 

The only thanks the shopkeep gets is a frustrated huff.  Had Arthur known he’d be looking all over for a woman he didn’t even know, he’d of had second thoughts about coming into town. But he’s already started now, and might as well finish.  

 

The saloon is quiet. Seeing as it’s morning, only the truly desperate were there to drown their sorrows. A few patrons however, seemed to be enjoying breakfast, and regarded Arthur with careful eyes when he entered. 

“Oh, no! Not you again!” The bartender shouts, evidently displeased. “You caused enough trouble last night, out with you!” Before Arthur can decline and mention he’s looking for someone -- that someone comes walking down the stairs and, wouldn’t you know it, is wearing his jacket.  He can’t recall giving it to her, but who’s to say he didn’t. She locks eyes with him and seems rather startled as to what she should do. To his surprise, she walks over to him. 

“Arthur.”

“Vita.” He tips his hat in acknowledgement.  Vita regards him from head to toe, tilts her head almost curiously before finding his eyes once more.  “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“Yeah, well, you likely wouldn’t have had my conscience not gotten the better of me.” 

This seems to amuse her. “Conscience? For intruding on my bath? You didn’t do anything worth apologizing for, don’t worry.”  The bartender, who had been silently fuming thus far, finally came storming from around the bar to meet the pair. 

“You have to leave, sir! _Ma’am_ , I _implore_ you to take this friend outside! He’s not welcome here!”  

The fury of the bartender proves to be funny to Vita, who smiles and takes a hold of Arthur's arm and all but begins pushing him outside. “Of course, of course. Come, Arthur -- you can walk with me.”

 

Outside, the bustle of the town begins to quick it’s pace. The pair keep off to the side and out of the way of passing riders and carts. Vita has long released her hold on Arthur's arm.  Across the street, a pair of lawmen sit who regard Arthur with the same ill look he gives them.  Vita neither cares nor notices the staredown, as she's busy trying to shake herself out of his jacket. His attention tears away from the lawmen and is brought to the shuffling movements of the woman at his side.  By now, she's removed his jacket and holds it out to him with one hand.    “You left this last night, and your boots. I couldn’t wear those.”

He takes it with a chuckle, “You often wear people’s clothes, ‘specially people you don’t even know?” 

“Free clothes are free clothes.” Is her simple reply, delivered with only a shrug.  He can’t argue with that logic. It was a way of living he understood too well. 

  
“I still want to apologize for last night. I - I was drunk and not in a right mind.”   
“There’s nothing to apologize for.” 

He’s not sure what to say. No doubt each insistent apology will be met with the same thing. He should just let it go, he’s tried and --

 

“My train leaves soon. Do you want your boots back? They’re in my room, at the hotel? I kept them, couldn’t decide if they were worth selling or not.”

He thinks to laugh, but he’s not certain she’s joking. 

“If you don’t mind?”  

The hotel owner does not bother meeting them at the entrance. No doubt he’s trying strongly to avoid any other potential threats that come walking in today. Nevertheless, Vita escorts Arthur upstairs and to her room. 202, just like the man said.  It’s clear from the moment Arthur enters the room, that she had not stayed long. Nothing is out of place. The place looks generic, boring, and had she not said it was her room -- he wouldn't have doubted that it was abandoned. He watches her from the doorway as she walks to the end of the bed and kneels down. Sure enough, she pulls out his pair of boots and gestures for him to take them.  He does, and offers a near inaudible thanks which she gives no indication that she’s heard. 

 

“You haven’t been in town, long?”

“No, I just came in last night. I’m making my way to Saint Denis.”

“Why in the hell would you wanna go to a place like that?” 

She seems to consider this question carefully, her feet a seeming source of inspiration. After a while, she answers, “I’m not sure.”   
  
A pause.  “I think something’s waiting for me there.”

“Like what?”   
“Well, I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out when I get there.” 

 

Her reply is so blatantly cheeky, that he finds his curiosity is raised. Spontaneity is not something with which he is well acquainted. Dutch was about planning, careful articulation.  Impulsiveness was frowned upon. And yet, here is a woman - who by all accounts is travelling alone -- traversing from one place to another simply because she thought something was waiting for her, and she didn’t even know what that something was.  She was either profound, or profoundly stupid. 

His expression seems to reveal exactly what he's thinking, because her own face has turned sour and she's got her hands on her hips in the way all ladies do when they're pissed about one thing or another.

 

“Now, you can’t be one to judge my actions when you’re out here barging in on ladies bathing!” 

 

She can’t guilt him with that one, he’d apologized twice already.   “I don’t make a habit of it! Not like I go lookin’ for ladies to bother.”   Her expression tells him she doesn’t believe him, but she makes no further argument for it. 

“My train’s supposed to be here any minute now, I should head to the station.”

“Oh, don’t let me keep you.”   
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” Her response is so quick and so terribly smug, he can’t help but blink and grin, doltishly, at her prickly nature. 

  
He does not offer to escort her to the station, nor does she ask for the company. But neither person complains as they walk side by side through Valentine. Had she luggage, Arthur might’ve offered to carry it for her. But all she seemed to have was the clothes on her back. She carried nothing, no doubt in the belief that everything she needed was in Saint Denis.  That’s what he thought, anyway. The truth, however, was that she truly had nothing to carry. Her family had not been a rich one, and her father had died with no fortune to leave. She was alone, and owned nothing, and still found no reason to complain. 

Fellow hopefuls intending to board the next train gather patiently at the station. Couples, at least one family, and mostly solo travelers gather and seem occupied with their own troubles and lives.  

 

Arthur and Vita stand side by side, waiting. He tries to think of something to say, but what are you supposed to say to what is essentially a stranger.  He should wish her a good trip, and a happy life in Saint Denis. Maybe he should criticize her choice of destination, once more. 

“Do you write?” 

The question pulls him from his thoughts, and for a moment he thinks he’s misheard her.   
  
“I beg your pardon?”   
She repeats herself, patiently, “Do you write? Can you write, I mean?”

“I can.”

 

A pause, as if she's carefully going over her next words.

“Would you like to write me in Saint Denis, sometime?”

 

Now this is an odd question, and she doesn’t even look at him when she asks it. He wonders if she’s shy, and knows it’s a weird question.  She does know it, and she regrets asking it as soon as it’s passed her lips. 

“I was just curious.” She tries to explain, “it’s a silly question, truly, forget I even -” 

“What’ll be your address?”

 

Now it’s his turn to catch her off guard, and finally she looks up at him and he gets a good, long look at her face.  It’s slender, tanned either naturally or from the sun -- he can’t tell. Her eyes are brown, and they look at him as wide as they did last night.  He’d probably recognize those eyes, like that, anywhere. They were embedded in his memory now, so easily.

“I’m not sure, I really don’t know where I’ll live but - maybe I can write you one, and then you’ll have it once I figure things out.”

“Sure, sure. You got a pen or somethin’?” 

She doesn’t.  But instead of leaving it to that, she makes her way around the walkway until she’s managed to obtain both a pen and a piece of paper.  He scribbles down a special address that only a select few would recognize. It’ll be held by the office until someone could claim it, and at the end of the day -- wouldn’t give up their camp’s location, no matter where it may be.  He takes extra care in the legibility of his writing, before passing the paper to her. She reads over the address carefully, before folding it up and tucking it into her pocket.   She opens her mouth to say something, but the train whistle interrupts and he’s never been good at reading lips. 

  
“This must be my train!” She says, as the other people shuffle around the platform and say their last goodbyes.  The train rounds the corner, slowing on approach. 

“It was nice meeting you, Arthur. I’ll send you a letter soon.”

“Sure thing. . .Vita.”  Admittedly, he doesn’t expect to ever get one from her -- but he keeps this to himself.  The train’s wheels grind to a stop, and the travelers begin to board. Vita offers Arthur a smile, and nods her head.  He lifts his fingers to his hat and nods in kind. 

 

He watches as she boards the train and loses her among the people sorting themselves into seats.   __

_ That's it then _ , he thinks,  _ I’ll never see that girl again _ .


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting up plots is hard, some of you make it look too easy. You'll be hearing from my lawyers about this.

Time had passed.  Summer had said hello and farewell in the same heated breath. Within the first week, Arthur had waited with embarrassing commitment. Each venture to camp was met with a singular question: Any mail today?   


Each answer was the same. Not today. It continued for so long, that Arthur felt played for a fool. Sitting around, waiting for a letter from a woman he scarce even knew.  It pissed him off, to be quite frank. It made him boil with a strange and terrible rage. It was his pride, no doubt, that was wounded. But his heart felt a certain sting as well.  After two months passed, he stopped asking entirely.    
  
Before their time in Rhodes was ruined, Arthur did receive one letter. It had not, however, been from the person he had expected. Instead, as if his fortune chose to spite him, it was from a love long lost. Mary Linton. A woman’s whose name held enough power over him to make his stomach tumble and his palms grow sweaty.  They had been lovers in their youth. Arthur would have done anything for her, would have given her anything. But she tended, often, to criticize his life. His choices. He had had too much pride then, and too much pride still. Part of him understood why Mary ended things when she had, but part of him still suffocated from the hurt it had inflicted on him. 

She had written him for help. He didn’t know what was more surprising. The fact that Mary had kept the special address few had as means to reach him, or the fact that after all these years -- all this lost time -- she emerged from her perfect life in order to ask him for help.  Lord knows he had clutched that letter in his hands, had creased it beyond repair. A side of him, ailing with a broken heart, had thought to throw the letter in the fire. But the other side won, and he did nothing but tuck it carefully in the pages of his journal, for safekeeping.

It was her brother, Jamie, that needed help -- not her. Her brother had always been a silly kid, Arthur remembered. While her father would spit at him, each time he came around -- her brother always seemed cautious, yet curious. Jamie was bookish, small, and it was no surprise that the kid had found himself enthralled by the teachings of some strange group. Cult, Mary had called them as she expressed her fear for her brother’s well being. 

Between his snide remarks and attempt at remaining distant with the woman he once loved, he accepted Mary’s pleas for help and promised to bring Jamie back home. He made good on the promise. Dragging the kicking, screaming young man back home to his sister, who greeted him with open arms. She criticized his methods, which Arthur excused by his results.  “Thank you, Arthur.” is all she offers him, disheartened and yet -- not surprised. “You haven’t changed.”

He figured that was the last time he’d see Mary Linton, and he tried -- with desperation -- to be happy about that. 

Just a few days afterwards, and the Van Der Linde’s gang’s cover in Valentine was broken. Blown to pieces by a fat man with too much money, and doubly too much power. The Pinkertons all but lived in Leviticus Cornwall’s pockets, funded entirely by him in order to keep his trains nice and safe from one destination to the other.  Dutch had decided that they’d gain nothing aside from misfortune, should they stick around, especially with their cover blown -- and so they had all loaded up and headed southeast, where the Pinkertons and Cornwall certainly would not be. 

 

Clemens Point was a nice enough hideaway. However, the nearby town of Rhodes proved silly and was not short of entertainment for the gang. It was home to two old, rich families -- with a feud just as old as their names. Both of the families were as dense as dense could be, which prompted Dutch and Hosea to sweep in and play them all for fiddles. 

Hosea was interested in both families and their hidden fortunes. Dutch, however, had gold in his eyes. Old Confederate gold, Dutch said, eyes gleaming and mouth watering. The doubt settled into Arthur the minute the guys began talking about buried treasure, and only seemed to grow the more he ventured into town and bothered dealing with the Grays and the Braithwaites. Personally, he found the Grays less annoying to deal with than the Braithwaites, and yet he did not go out of his way to help either. 

Autumn rolled in during their stay at Clemens Point, and Arthur found that the coloring of the leaves in Lemoyne was, just maybe, the prettiest he’d ever seen. Dutch had begun telling the gang that they were close, close to that one perfect job that would set them up for life. Arthur always nodded and did as he was told, yet felt no closer to wealth than he had in the beginning. 

It was nightfall, on a Tuesday, by the time Tilly returned to camp after a quick run to town. She had approached his makeshift abode on feet so light, he had hardly heard her approach.    
  
“Letter for you, Arthur.”   
She held it out with a smile, and he already knew she had read whoever recipients name was on the envelope. He sits up from his bed with a soft groan, and takes the letter from the young woman’s hands.  The looks she gives him is suspicious, but she’s off before he can question her. 

He turns the letter over in his hands, until the name of the writer shines clearly in the light of his candle.  Vita P. Shaw. He can hardly believe it. For a while he had resigned to the fact that Vita would never write to him, that there was no use waiting around like some dull-headed child. And now, as if just to mock him, a letter shows up just for him. He brings his finger to the corner of the envelope, and debates on whether or not he should open it or just leave it alone. It’s a short debate, and his finger slides along the paper, tearing it open until he can pull out the letter that is neatly folded and waiting to be read.

 

_ Dear Arthur,  _ __  
_  
_ _ It has been some time since Valentine.  _ Here, he thinks, is the understatement of the century.  ___I have thought of writing you, often, but I found no time to do so. Saint Denis is a city constantly in motion, and I am so used to the slow pace of the wilderness that it overwhelmed me, in the beginning.  I have, for the moment, secured room and board with a French artist, who is very passionate about his art. He is a silly man, but he has never showed me any disrespect and is always friendly._

__

 

_ I hope you are well. Are you still around Valentine? I could make a trip up there, sometime. Perhaps we could have a proper meeting, at last.   _ He wonders what she considers a proper meeting, until he realizes she is poking fun at him in her own, silly way.  _ Or maybe you can come to Saint Denis. You made such a face when I mentioned it, but maybe my company would make things better for you. I have been told I am relatively good company by the folks down here. _

 

_ I hope you’ll write me back. Tell me all about the strange encounters you’ve had, so far. I hope none of them beat ours.  _

  
  
  


_ Your friend from Saint Denis,  _ __  
_  
_ __ Vita P. Shaw

 

Her signature is but a flurry of penmarks, barely legible to be a name. How very like her, he thinks, to sign her name this way. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling down at the letter until a voice speaks out from his side.    
  
“And just what has got you grinning like that, Arthur?” 

Dutch stands idly by, puffing on a cigar as he regards Arthur with a curious gleam in his eyes.  “Another letter from Mary, perhaps? Still fawning over that woman?”

“Not Mary, Dutch.”

 

Oh, it’s something he shouldn’t have said -- because now Dutch’s curiosity becomes unbearable. He pulls the cigar from his lips and grins, wolfishly. 

 

“Well, well! Arthur, my boy! Don’t keep secrets.”

They banter back and forth. Dutch eager to know who is writing letters to Arthur, and Arthur adamant about keeping that knowledge away from Dutch. It’s an attempt for naught, because soon Dutch is annoyed enough to snatch the letter from his hands. The sudden motion, an invasion of privacy by Arthur’s standards, causes Arthur to leap from his bed. Dutch avoids the attempt of the man to snatch back his letter, and instead turns his back to Arthur. 

 

“Vita P. Shaw, huh?” His tone suggests that the cogs of his mind are whirring away. It’s an opportunity Arthur takes to snatch back his letter, and shove it underneath his pillow. Dutch either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care to notice. Instead, he turns around once more. He brings his cigar to his mouth, and exhales a plume of smoke. 

“Shaw. Any relation to an Augustus?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Arthur barks, irritability so plain in his tone. It bothers Dutch not, and the man turns and mutters something under his breath before leaving Arthur to his peace without another word.  Dutch’s interest in his letter, and Vita’s surname instills some curiosity in Arthur. He knew, as it were, very little about Vita - so any interest anyone had, he shared. 

 

He sits on his cot, once more, and runs a hand through his hair. The letter, for that fleeting moment, had made him forget his exhaustion and he lays down for what he hopes will be the final time, tonight.  For a moment, he considers the portrait of his mother on the bedside table. Then, remembering the letter crumpled hastily under his pillow -- he reaches his hand underneath his head and pulls out the letter, now wrinkled.  He smooths it out, as best he can, and allows his eyes to scan over the words as many times as he can manage without hurting his head. When the camp, slowly but surely, grows quiet - it is then that Arthur folds the letter up, and tucks it in his shirt pocket, where it will stay throughout the night and well into tomorrow until he can think of just the right words to form a reply. Rolling onto his back, he stares at the tarp overhead until the fatigue becomes unignorable. With one last motion, he presses his index and thumb against the flame of his candle, and casts himself in darkness -- where he resides until the slumber hits. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter. I'm setting up to get things flowing along. Bit by bit, things align. Bit by bit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward / shy Arthur is the best Arthur. Any big, strong, tough outlaw who blushes deserves to be loved.

Saint Denis was an adjustment. Where once a woman was wild and free, things behind the brick walls were contained, domesticated. It required a level of adaptation, something one either had or lacked entirely. Fortunately, Vita discovered she possessed the ability to adapt to situations most of her upbringing would fine -- unlivable.  She thought of herself as a snake shedding its skin. Growing a newer, finer one. The women of Saint Denis dressed nicely in ruffled skirts, which Vita minded not at all. It was the hats the poor woman could not stand. Hats with all manners of feathers and strange pins. All colors, shapes, and sizes -- it made her head hurt each time she witnessed someone wearing those eyesores on top of their heads. Yet, that was the fashion it seemed.   _From Paris_ , the ladies would chirp happily, _Only the latest fashions!_

Perhaps, some amount of envy lurked deep down in the woman when she gazed at the ladies with their plummaged hats.  They wore their wealth, while Vita could not afford such a luxury.

She was employed, of course, with help from the artistic Frenchman who so kindly introduced her to a lady he was seeing.  They were on again, off again -- the Frenchman and his lady. _Charles_ , Vita had said one evening over a quiet dinner, _Do you love her?_  Charles had laughed and shook his head, “ _Non, mon ami_ \-- love is a bitter game!”   

Regardless of the true extent of their romance, Charles had persuaded his lover to take Vita in as a housemaid. Admittedly, Vita was upset with the occupation. Where once she had accompanied those who would take money whenever they wanted it, now she was forced -- by society, no doubt -- into labor. To work for her money! Half of her loathed the idea, and the other half felt a sense of ease in working for ones earnings.  It was an honest way of making money, something she should be proud of. Should be proud of, but likely wasn’t.

The uniform was not so elegant as the streetwear ladies wore.  It was a black dress, high neck -- and buttons all down the front.  Vita often opted to forgo the apron, which her Mistress seemed not to mind.  She could, then, pretend that she was a lady of higher standing. A governess, perhaps. Not as elegant as her mistress, but more than just a simple housemaid.  

Adaptation, Vita often reminded herself, sometimes requires a bit of _fantasy_.

It took time to adapt to a routine, to earn money and begin establishing herself as a woman of some respect. No one questioned her name in Saint Denis, nor seemed to care at all where she came from.  It was a small relief, and one that helped her settle more easily, contentedly, into the city lifestyle.

It was a sleepless night that Vita finally made good on her promise to write to Arthur, the man she had only met twice -- one time which, by all accounts, hardly counted as a meeting at all.  The streets beneath her bedroom window lay silent, still, but at her desk Vita’s hand scrawled across countless sheets of paper attempting to write a decent enough letter. It was curious, to her, why she made such a fuss of writing a simple letter to a simple enough man.  She had fought first with the idea of addressing the letter as ‘Dearest Arthur’, but argued that that sounded too suggestive for their relationship. She crumpled the paper and began again, and again, until she was satisfied that her letter was polite and neutral enough -- without being too dull to read.   She sent it off in the morning, and tried very hard not to worry if her letter would even get to him.

The letter, in fact, did get to him. A few weeks later she received a reply.  
  


_Vita,_

_I am no longer in Valentine. My company and I have moved further South, to Rhodes as it were. In my journey, I can say that no encounters I’ve had have beaten ours. However, the two families I’ve got myself involved with are close competition. I cannot say that, in all my years, I’ve seen two families more weird. Just completely weird. They both hate each other, but the son of one and the daughter of the other are in love. I’ve been passing letters between them. I do not read them, but I’ve thought about it. Their little romance would see them both killed if it got out, that’s why I’m playing messenger -- they trust me, think I can’t be killed or something like that._

_Oh, I didn’t mention. I’ve been made sheriff of this town. Stranger things have happened, I suppose. I don’t have a clue about being a sheriff, but they don’t seem to care about anything around here._

_Saint Denis isn’t far from here. I’ll make a trip to see you. I need to get out of this hellhole anyway._

  


_Arthur_

 

She must have read the letter multiple times, until she could nearly recite each sentence from memory. Such a strange man, living such a strange and eventful life. And yet each time she thinks of him he remembers the somber way he spoke to her on their first meetings.  How he talked of mortal loneliness, in a way that struck her sympathy like nothing else could. His eyes, even in the dim candlelight, had been clouded by sorrow. Those eyes stayed with her, his voice, his hands. Her offer on writing him had been entirely in a curious effort to try and ease that despair he harbored. She, too, was a lonely creature. Maybe, just maybe, they could outwit loneliness together.

It was a childish thought, but one she happily entertained.

 

* * *

 

Arthur made good on his word to visit the city and escape the hellhole called Rhodes, but he wasn’t too sure he was exactly pleased about it.  It was big, busy, and smog had a way of hanging in the air like thick curtains. It was a wonder how people didn’t bump into each other, or find themselves trampled under carriage wheels. But, they managed, and Arthur figured he could, too.

It was rather like a fool’s errand to come to a large place like this and think you’ll find the exact person you’re looking for. The envelope from Vita’s last letter was the only clue as to where she might be. The address pointed to a street, to a certain door -- but it was the navigation that would prove most difficult for him. Occasionally, he would stop and ask a passerby if they knew which way this certain street was -- they’d either ignore him or shake their head, but a select few were kind enough to point him along.  Further and further he went through the labyrinthian streets. Every so often he’d pass a particular individual or alleyway that made him reach for his gun. An instinct for survival. He didn’t trust much anyone, but definitely not some of the fools that strolled around like villains out of Jack’s storybooks. How Vita had managed to stay reasonably sane in a place like this was beyond Arthur’s knowledge. But, he knew she had to be one tough gal to keep herself afloat in Saint Denis.

After much dedication, and mild frustration -- he finally found the address her letter had listed. It was a fair enough place. Not elegant, but livable. It took him three flights of stairs to reach the door that was hers, and he found it was unlocked. He knocked before entering, but let himself in without much of a second thought.  

“Vita?” He called, “It’s me, Arthur.”

He received no reply, and after looking around -- it would seem she wasn’t home.  It wasn’t polite to snoop around in people’s things, much less a lady’s abode, but he never considered himself all that polite. It was easier, this way, to figure out who he was dealing with. Some people didn’t much like answering questions about themselves, so it was up to him to find out about them by other means.  

Arthur finds Vita, by observation of her apartment alone, a rather unorganized woman. A few books are stacked or scattered across the floor, as well as various garments -- especially what he assumes are undergarments.  Her bed is unmade, and on the table beside it rests a plate. Cleaned, but not put away. It was a great contrast to what he remembered of her hotel room in Valentine. It seemed that here she felt safe enough to do as she liked, even if that meant living in clutter.  

She had no jewels, nor finery that he could see. But, what she did have intrigued him greatly, especially her vanity table. He drew his fingers over the table’s surface. Traced fingertips across her hairbrush and hairpins, but when his eyes fell upon a pistol -- well, he had to do a double take.  Of course, any woman has a need to protect herself, and he could understand a greater need to do so living in a city like this. But still, he found himself intrigued. Against better judgement, he picks up the pistol and turns it over in his hands. It’s not new. It seems, in fact, like it’s seen some years of use and needed desperately to be cleaned. Along the metal of the barrel, Arthur could make out deep indentations where someone had carved an A and an S into the gun. Initials, maybe, but not Vita’s.  

 

“Arthur?”

 

The voice makes him jump, and his hands find the trigger of this pistol with the quickness of an expert. He doesn’t fire, however, he’s surprised -- not stupid. He turns around, and at once the finger falls from the trigger, almost in guilt.  

“Vita, hey.”

She’s looking at him with the same wide eyes she always does, but her lips are arranged into a frown.  “Are you going through my stuff? Don’t you have any sense about you?”

Arthur blinked and put the pistol where he found it and tries his hardest not to look so damn guilty.  But he’s caught, red-handed, and there’s no use trying to excuse himself. “I was. You weren’ in and I wasn’t too sure this was even your place so I--”  
  
“Started snoopin’ around?”   She's looking at him expectantly, and h e nods,  “Yeah, guess you can say that.”   
“No guessing to it, Arthur.”

Arthur can’t tell if he’s wounded her opinion of him, but she’s neither yelling or raising her hands to him -- so he’ll assume she’s forgiven his transgressions.

“I told you I’d come see you.” It’s an attempt to divert her mind to the fact she found a man in her room, going through her possessions like a common thief. It seems to work, before long her lips are turning upwards and she’s smiling at him.

“You did tell me that. I was happy to hear it, especially given your particular hatred of cities.”

“Just this city in particular, I think. Ain’t much here to be admired.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. All sorts of people are bunched together here, it leads to some interesting characters.”

Interesting characters, indeed. He had seen a few on his way over to where he was now, but he doesn’t dare mention it for knowledge his tone would sound displeased.  He didn’t particularly want to seem unhappy to be here. In a way, he was fine with Saint Denis, if he meant he could be in present company.

“Are you hungry?” She asks, moving about the room. His eyes follow her, and it’s only then he notices she’s dressed like she’s just come from a funeral.

“Not at the moment.” He’s still looking at her dress as he speaks, watching her bend and walk from one side of the room to the other. She appears to be trying to tidy up, but it’s a bit too late for that, in his opinion.

“Good, I’m not a good cook. Terrible cook, actually, you’d be better off starving.”  Her words are enough to pull his gaze back up, and he can’t help but snort in amusement. He can’t say much differently. His cooking was never something to brag about.

“Is that so? Why, I always fancied you as the very picture of domestication.”

She stops her cleaning and peers at him queerly, assessing whether or not he’s being sarcastic. His lopsided grin is enough of an indicator, and she lets out a huff.  “I never said I was a housewife, Arthur.”

“That was pretty clear the moment I stepped in here.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”  Oh, that had done it. Vita has rounded on him with both hands on her hips, brow furrowed. He knows the look enough to know he’s poking a bear. But forgive him for finding her expression far too entertaining to stop.

“Oh, you know. All this stuff layin’ everywhere - I would think a housewife would keep her place clean. Tidy. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, ain’t it?”

“You’re one to talk, aren’t you? You must not be one for looking in the mirror. Otherwise, you’d be inclined to keep your mouth shut about cleanliness.”  She strikes back just as hard, and it’s enough to challenge him. He steps closer, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his trousers as he never breaks from his stern gaze.  She doesn’t back down, not even as her chin raises to look up at him. She’s firm, and Arthur thinks it’s rather cute that she’s got so much fire in her. Maybe, just maybe, he’s itching to get burned.

“It ain’t exactly in my profession to keep clean, Miss Vita.”

His voice is a low roll, a growl from the center of his chest. But she doesn’t blink, doesn’t give it an ounce of consideration, “And what exactly do you consider your profession? Critiquing my way of living?”

“At the moment, yeah. I’d be willin’ to consider it a profession.” Arthur is quick with his smug response,  and it earns him a sharp jab to the chest.

“If you came all this way to antagonize me, well you can go right back to where you came from.”

“I didn’t come here for that.” Arthur says, taking a step back now. He brings a hand up to rub at his face.  He had fun while the game lasted, but her tone suggests she won’t be having any more of his sharp tongue.

“What did you come here for, then?”  It’s her turn to ease her aggression. She lets her hands fall from her hips, and when Arthur finds the will to look at her face -- her expression is softer, more curious than anything.

“Came here to see you. That’s what I said in that letter, ain’t it?”

His answer evidently pleased her in some way, and she doesn’t bother to hide it.  She’s gleaming like a fox that just caught a rabbit, and Arthur would wager that he’s that same rabbit.

“I should be honored the sheriff of Rhodes came to visit, then.”

“I dunno about that, now.”

 

The two talk well into the evening, until the streetlamps ignite and the people down below are all nestled in their homes for the night.  Their conversations seemed endless in those hours, and when the moment came where it seems they’ve nothing else to talk about -- they simply sat side by side and regarded their mutual silence as a comfortable one.

“Vita.”

She hums in response to her name, and Arthur takes it as invitation to ask the question that’s just seeped into his mind.

“You know anyone by the name of Augustus Shaw?”  She is silent. He thinks she’s tensed up, but he can’t quite tell. Perhaps it’s not a question he should’ve asked, but before he can take it back -- she’s offering him an answer.  “I do know him, yes.”

It’s not a very satisfactory response, and Arthur itches with curiosity. She seems to know this, for not long after her answer she’s sighing and turning to get a good, long look at him.  He mimics her, turning to study her face and the way her lips form the words she speaks,  “That was my father. Augustus Shaw was my father.”   
  
“You don’t seem to happy about it.”   
“Well, I’m not exactly _pleased_ but -- I’m not exactly upset, either, I guess.”

“Why’s that?”

She recounts the slow tale of her parentage. She starts with her mother, who apparently was a native woman of insurmountable kindness, plucked away from her family by a man who had fallen head over heels for her. Vita spoke so fondly of her mother, it was as if Arthur had known the woman all his life. When Vita got to her father, however, the tone make a drastic shift. She spoke slower, formed her words carefully. It wasn’t until she said the name he knew, that he understood why.

 

“Jesus! Your father was _Black Eyes_? The _outla_ w _?_ ”

“He was, he is. Everyone has a lot of names for him, I never quite understood that one.”

Arthur had never had the privilege of meeting Black Eyes, but Dutch and Hosea had mentioned him in campfire tales or drunken stories. _An absolute butcher_ , Hosea would _recall, no matter who you are or what you did -- if you got in his way,  he’d slaughter you without so much as flinching._ Arthur finds it hard to believe that here sits his daughter, never so much as mentioned before by Dutch or Hosea. Maybe she’s gone looney, he thinks in an attempt to put some rationality to the situation. But the more he looks at her, the more he can’t help but know she’s telling the truth.

“He was never so cruel to my mother, or me. I never saw him kill anyone until I was well almost grown.”

It was interesting how people, criminals, could quell their violence for something like family...love.  Vita seemed to agree with him once he voiced this thought.

“He thought life would be hard for me as a girl, with him. He told everyone we crossed that I was his son, he never called my by my name. Always left it at V. I think in his last days, he really did forget he had a daughter.”

Arthur understands, to some degree, her father’s viewpoint - but he makes no mention of it.  Women could have it hard in a rough life of robbing and killing, he was trying to protect her.  Vita, again, seemed to agree.

 

When she eventually fell silent, unable to reveal much more, Arthur sighed and raised himself from his seat.  “It’s gettin’ late, I think. I oughta let you get some rest.”

“Where will you go?” She looks up at him, and were Arthur once more a boy -- his knees might have buckled under the sheer weight of her look.

“Ah, I’ll probably head back to Rhodes -- or make a camp on my way back.”

 

“You could stay here tonight.”

Now his knees really did buckle, and he nearly chokes on his own tongue when she says those words that surely implied one simple thing, but sounded like a thousand others.  He looks around, frantic and flustered and desperate to hide it.  The window seems a good exit point, right now, as his ears grow warmer and warmer by the second.  He’ll just fling himself out and maybe he’ll hit the ground in a way he won’t hurt himself. Then he’ll run.  Run far away and --

“Arthur?”

Her voice breaks his foolish escape plan, and he fumbles for some excuse.

“It don’t exactly look like you -- uh -- have an extra bed.”  
“We can share mine.”

Jesus Christ -- does she have any indication of what she’s saying?  He’s staring at her, but she’s giving nothing away.

“That wouldn’t be right. I can sleep in a chair, or I’ll even take the floor --”

“You’ll take my bed, Arthur. Really, it’s fine. You're not the first man I’ve shared a bed with.”

 

Now, they could have argued over it all night, and Arthur would’ve been happy to do so.  Argue away until the sun rose and he could use the excuse that, Hey -- it’s daytime, no sleep needed -- and he’d carry on his merry way.  But yet, he had been defeated -- and dejectedly he had climbed into bed as she excused herself to change into her nightgown. He had looked away when she entered the room in that lace gown that was almost sheer enough to fuel a man’s imagination. He had tried to ignore the way her leg had accidentally touched his as she climbed into bed beside him.  Arthur tried, with great ability, to pretend to be asleep, and she fell for it. She pressed her back against his -- for reason’s Arthur’s not quite certain about -- and soon her torso slowed to the soft patterns of sleep. At least one of them would be well rested for tomorrow. For Arthur was so focused on how it felt to have someone sleep against him all night, that he didn’t notice time pass.  He noticed, instead, her subtle movements. At one point, she had turned over and wrapped herself around him. Against his better judgement, he had looked down at her resting face and was hit with a bout of shyness.

This was far too intimate for a pair of strangers.  Far, far too intimate.  How was he supposed to relax, especially with her so pushed against him.  How long had it been since he’d had a woman in bed, much less in bed asleep with him? These thoughts do little to calm his mind, and now his body. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to imagine that he’s far away and sleeping in some hard bedroll beneath the stars.  But instead, his mind forms pictures of soft grass, shining stars and a cool night wind. There’s a woman laying beside him, with hair the color black. She’s sighing softly into his neck, from time to time she whispers his name.

Her thighs are soft against his hips, and she rocks as gently as the breeze. His fingers curl through her hair, and her mouth parts so she can speak his name once more.  Upwards, he leans, to press his lips against the tender point of her neck. He presses himself harder into her, moving in some strange rhythm as his teeth nip at her skin.

_“Arthur.”_    She moans into his ear,  _“Stay the night with me.”_


End file.
